So I poured myself a drink and went down to the bay a little while ago to watch the sun set, something I haven’t done for several months—when the days are short it’s harder to find the time. I was immediately sorry that I hadn’t taken my camera, as there was a heron sitting on a piling, and the sunset, which started out tame, grew spectacular. But of course if I’d had the camera I would have been busy trying unsuccessfully to capture what I was seeing, and wouldn’t have really seen it.
At one point there was an opening in the clouds in the west, revealing a deep blue-green patch, fringed with glowing orange-pink cloud. A couple of jets (who knows how far away?) flew across this opening, leaving flaming orange-pink contrails. I looked away for a minute, watching birds, and when I looked back the airplanes were gone, the contrails breaking up and the glow fading. I thought about this song. Steve Forbert, “I Blinked Once,” 4:15.
And of course soon enough the whole sunset was over and it was getting dark. That was half an hour ago and already the memory is fragmented and imprecise. Is it possible that when we forget something it’s gone forever? Even if we remember it, that’s not the same as having it. This is a hard thought to bear.
Pre-TypePad
Light On Dark Water 
Leave a comment